


And a Happy New Year

by Lauralot



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Family Fluff, Fluff, Kid Fic, M/M, Sickfic, Single Parents, no Hydra
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-07
Updated: 2016-01-07
Packaged: 2018-05-12 07:50:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5658421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lauralot/pseuds/Lauralot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brock Rumlow's New Year is off to a rocky start.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And a Happy New Year

**Author's Note:**

  * For [StarsGarters](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarsGarters/gifts).
  * Inspired by [School Days](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3688470) by [StarsGarters](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarsGarters/pseuds/StarsGarters). 



> This is a fic for StarsGarters, as inspired by her lovely Single Dads AU.

“Fuck January,” Brock muttered, shifting the bag of frozen peas against his knee.  They were starting to thaw.  He ought to get up and get something else from the freezer, but the raw road rash that reached halfway down his shin had other ideas.  Not to mention the bruises and swelling around it.  Fuck January.  


It started on the second, when the Honda slid on a patch of ice and plowed itself right into an electric pole.  Murphy hadn’t been inside, thank god.  Not that Brock had been injured, but knowing Murphy, seeing the Honda totaled would cause tears and nightmares.

And Murphy had it bad enough.  He’d spent yesterday huddled up on the couch, staring listlessly at the TV and refusing anything but soup.  This morning, he’d woken Brock at six complaining of a sore throat and chills.  He was running a fever, and Brock had no car.

He hadn’t been willing to trouble Alex—what if Murphy was catching and got Cynthia sick?—but thankfully, the old lady next door was driving into town to take her cat to the vet anyway.  The trip to Dr. Banner’s office had been uneventful, but the cat went tearing through the pharmacy parking lot when Murphy decided to open the carrier.  And in Brock’s haste to catch the mangy thing, he’d gone skidding on another patch of ice, and tore the hell out of his knee.

Fuck the whole New Year, really.

They’d been back home for an hour now, and Murphy was still in the kitchen.  Brock had measured out a dose of the bright pink medicine and watched his son toss it back before grabbing the peas and limping off to the couch.  The kid probably still felt too shitty to move.  Or he was working his way through the tub of Neapolitan in the freezer.

At least he’d leave the pistachio untouched.  Brock didn’t care if the Neapolitan got contaminated.  He felt a pang of guilt for leaving his sick kid to fend for himself, but the pain in his knee more than rivaled it.  And Murphy wasn’t exactly struggling for survival in the next room over.

The microwave dinged.  Hell.  He should probably make sure Murphy wasn’t inventing ice cream soup. “Murph?”

“Don’t come in!” Murphy called out, and that got Brock off his ass in a hurry.  


There was a peanut butter and jelly sandwich sitting on the table.  There were smears of jelly and peanut butter on the plate, but it was still one of Murphy’s neater efforts.  And Murphy was holding a bowl of steaming soup.  Apparently, he couldn’t find the hot pads, because there was a thick layer of paper towels sandwiched between the bowl and his hands.

“I wanted to make you lunch so you’d feel better,” Murphy said.  “I wanted to surprise you.  And I washed my hands so you won’t get sick.”  


Brock ruffled his son’s hair.  The condensation from the peas on his skin made Murphy’s hair stick out like cowlicks, and Brock smiled.

“Thanks.”  


He was halfway through the sandwich when his phone meowed with a text from Alex:   _Dinner tonight?_

 _Rain check,_ Brock typed back.   _Murphy’s sick and I’m crippled._  Then he thought better of it and added, _Not seriously crippled.  Don’t panic.  I lost a fight with with the weather._

 _I’m ordering takeout to your house_ was Alex’s response.   _Any preferences on where from?  And are either of you allergic to flowers?_

All right, maybe January could redeem itself.


End file.
